The Golden Lady

I don’t know exactly how to describe her, but the word that comes closest to an accurate description is sorceress, and she probably saved my life.

It all happened a few years ago when I traveled to the interior of the country, specifically to the city of Cusco. My brother had gone there some time before to drink ayahuasca, seeking to find himself through the hallucinogenic journey. However, my visit to Cusco had nothing to do with mysticism; I was there for the wedding of one of my best friends, who had rented a hall in one of the city’s most exclusive hotels.

Topics like ayahuasca or mysticism had never interested me. I considered them meaningless eccentricities. I’m not particularly passionate about culture either. Many take advantage of their visit to Cusco to explore Incan temples such as Sacsayhuamán or Machu Picchu, but those things never appealed to me. It might sound frivolous or ignorant, but my practical, business-oriented nature kept me away from the typical interests of tourists.

When I say that the sorceress saved my life, I don’t mean it figuratively. My encounter with her awakened a series of faculties within me that quite literally saved me from death. It would be natural to assume that in Cusco, I met a shaman who introduced me to coca leaf reading, offerings to Pachamama, or ayahuasca, as my brother had done. But that was not the case. The sorceress wasn’t even Peruvian.

Our meeting took place at the hotel where I was staying. It was a medium-sized building, about five stories high, located near the Plaza de Armas. It wasn’t the hotel where my friend’s wedding would take place; that one was far too expensive for me. My room was simple but clean, and breakfast was included in the stay. I had traveled light, with only a small suitcase, and arrived at night. A taxi took me from the airport to the hotel.

The flight had exhausted me, and navigating the airport had been draining, so as soon as I arrived, I paid for my reservation, went up to the third floor, opened the door to my room—number 33—and collapsed onto the bed. I took off my shoes and, without even changing my clothes, lay down and closed my eyes. I slept deeply, something I hadn’t been able to do in a long time.

I’ve always suffered from anxiety, and my sleep tends to be light and easily interrupted. However, that night was different. Something about that hotel allowed me to rest completely, and I woke up feeling more refreshed than ever before. It was a sensation I had long forgotten—the pleasure of truly restful sleep. I looked at the clock and saw that it was six in the morning. I got up, put on my shoes, and, still wearing the same clothes as the day before, went down to the dining area.

At the time, I was 35 years old. Though a long time has passed since then, every moment of that experience remains vivid in my memory, like everything that leaves a deep mark. I sat at a table, rested my arms on the surface, and waited to be served.

A television was on, broadcasting the news. However, what I saw on the screen struck me as strange. The images were from an unfamiliar country, and the language being spoken sounded like a mix between Russian and German. I found it curious. Cusco is a city filled with tourists, so I had expected to see a channel in English or even in Quechua, the region’s native language. But what was being shown seemed to belong to an entirely different world.

The people on the screen didn’t have the typical features of Cusco’s inhabitants or the tourists who usually visit the city. They were neither copper-skinned like the locals nor white like Europeans or North Americans. Their appearance was peculiar, hard to classify—perhaps somewhat Asian, but also strange. The most unusual thing about them was their eyes, which were a shade of yellow. I had never seen anyone with eyes of that color before.

As I tried to make sense of what I was seeing, a woman approached to offer me breakfast. She immediately caught me off guard—she had the same physical characteristics as the people in the news report. Her eyes were a soft yellow, her hair golden, and her smile radiated an indescribable sweetness. She spoke to me in Spanish, but with a faint accent that revealed her native tongue was the same as the one I had heard on the television.

I wanted to ask her what country she was from, but something held me back. A strong intuition told me it was not the right question to ask. The woman seemed to be around fifty years old, but her beauty was so singular that, for a moment, I had the sensation of being in the presence of an angelic being.

She served me bread, butter, jam, and freshly ground coffee, whose aroma was delightful. Every bite filled me not only with pleasure but with a strange sense of emotional fulfillment, as if that breakfast was more than just food. It was, without a doubt, the best breakfast of my life.

As I was finishing, she approached me again and asked how I liked the food. I praised her preparation, and we began a conversation that revolved around topics I had never considered before. She spoke of God, of love, of the importance of letting go of hatred, and of the necessity of forgiveness.

Her words touched me deeply. For years, I had harbored resentment toward a business partner who had betrayed me, but the gentleness with which she spoke allowed me to release that resentment, along with many others I had accumulated throughout my life.

I felt an irrational urge to tell her that I loved her, that I would leave everything for her, that I would abandon my life in Lima to devote myself entirely to worshiping her. But I held back.

I returned to my room, but I was not at peace. Instead of feeling harmony, I felt obsessed with that woman. Her image had embedded itself in my mind like a virus, and the thought of not being able to have her was unbearable. I wanted to go outside to clear my head, but something prevented me. The room felt like an inescapable prison.

Eventually, I collapsed onto the floor and broke into tears. After a while, exhaustion overcame me, and I fell asleep again. When I woke up, I was shocked to see that my watch still read six in the morning. I couldn’t understand how that was possible. Had I slept for an entire day? I felt hungry, so I went down to the dining area. This time, the television was broadcasting local news, and the woman who served me was entirely different—nothing like the one before.

Confused, I tried to dismiss what had happened as a strange dream, a product of exhaustion and my expectations for the trip. However, the most unsettling event occurred days later, during my friend’s wedding. As I entered the hotel’s hall, I discovered that all the guests were women with yellow eyes and golden hair, identical to those I had seen in my dreams and in the museum I had visited.

At the altar, there was no priest, but rather a woman wearing a black stone helmet with horns. She called to me, and I found myself unable to resist. As she took my hands, her skin felt like that of a corpse. I managed to break free and ran. Just at that moment, an explosion shook the hall. It was a gas leak that destroyed the venue, killing several guests.

Now, after those events, I am in a new relationship with my deceased friend’s bride. She revealed to me that, days before her wedding, she had invoked an entity from another world to guide her toward true love if her partner was not the right one.

Today, that experience has given me a newfound interest in the unknown, and perhaps someday, I will return to Cusco—this time, ready to explore the mysteries of magic. Maybe the golden lady will visit us again, to celebrate our love.